Flying Too Close to the Sun George Jehn (best non fiction books of all time .txt) 📖

combination of European soap with a tiny, almost insignificant hint of a human. Not body odor per se, just a human body. This caused erotic flashbacks of Johanna, his bewitching, blond schoen Fraulein of a lifetime ago. Thinking back, he could actually feel body and soul stir. She had done great things to and for him. Too bad his wife, Nancy no longer had the hots for him, now generating a different type of body heat, the elevated temps of menopause. No doubt the same condition had caused her to complain loudly when their telephone sounded while sleeping, summoning him to this case. All they ever did in bed now was sleep, leaving only yesterday’s memories to evoke how things had once been. Now, he was married only to the FBI. Where was Johanna? What did she look like today?

Erik’s words snapped him back to the present. “Excuse me. It’s late and I was out like a light.” Leaving the sleep behind he added, “Let me put on some decent clothes.” Running up the steps like a benched basketball player sent into a close game, Erik hurried past his parents as he sprinted to his bedroom. He managed to calm himself enough to slip on a loose-fitting pair of blue jeans and plain white tee. He descended the steps two at a time like someone anxious to help, hoping this wasn’t lost on the cops. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?” Erik cheerfully offered between breaths, even though there was a chill in the pit of his stomach. Was there a telling flaw or did the cops picture him as a calm, cool pilot? Truth be known, he was sick with anxiety and his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Recalling Juni’s words, he tried to think like a cop. But those thoughts went by the wayside as he couldn’t help but wonder if the cuffs would go on if they even simply thought he was involved? “Please,” he offered, gesturing toward the couch, while he took a seat on another chair. Both policemen pulled out small notebooks, their eyes honed in so intently, Erik felt glued in place by their laser-like stares.

It was previously agreed Daly would conduct this interrogation. Morganthaler removed a small, portable tape recorder from his shirt pocket and placed it on the table, explaining, “This device will record what’s said so we can review it later. Is that acceptable?” They were using the opportunity to lock in his story and would go back, listening for any inconsistencies, knowing many cases turned on a minute detail, perhaps a seemingly inconsequential item during the initial interview. Listening later might provide the key.

“Sure.”

“Would you please state your full name and address for the record?” Erik complied and Daly continued. “Shuttle Air informed us you were a member of the cockpit crew on flight 1540 tonight from Boston to New York,” he somberly began, ladders of wrinkles over his deeply furrowed eyebrows. Seemingly looking at a sheet of paper he was holding at arms length, he was actually looking over it, directly into Erik’s eyes trying to pick up any subtleties. Years of experience said the eyes always told the truth.

“Yes. Is something the matter?” Erik quickly added, while looking directly into Daly’s blue eyes and blinking, hoping he conveyed green-eyed innocence. “Did I do something wrong?”

Ignoring his question, Daly asked, “Did you observe anything you might classify as strange or out of the ordinary?”

Just then, Joe scurried downstairs clad in his pajamas and bathrobe. Erik was happy for the diversion when he demanded, “What is going on?”

“I don’t know, Dad. These men are police officers.”

“Police!”

There were no introductions and the elder Preis’ face was as red as a Coke can. He mumbled incoherently and sat on the far end of the couch, glaring. Nursing a hangover, the repulsive stench of stale whiskey enveloped him and floated throughout the room like a swarm of buzzing flies alighting on everyone present. “I will stay here,” he announced.

Daly wanted to question Erik alone but continued, ignoring the old man. But if he interrupted he would be told to leave. “For example, did you see anyone snooping around the plane or notice anything you might classify as uncommon or out of the ordinary?”

Ignoring his father and still looking directly at Daly, Erik hesitated for a moment and then his face brightened. “There was something.”

The FBI man glanced at Morganthaler who shifted slightly in his seat as if anticipating vital information.

“We had a mechanical problem, difficulty with a generator. The captain and I resolved it.” Without waiting for a response he continued, “I haven’t worked for Shuttle Air very long, but I have flown that trip before and except for the generator and some poor weather, everything else was pretty routine.”

“Tell me about the generator.”

Erik repeated the story he’d gone over in his mind seemingly a thousand times hoping it would appear spontaneous, not wanting to come across like an actor trapped in a bad play. “To conserve fuel, Shuttle Air’s standard procedure is to wait until just before receiving takeoff clearance to start the final engine. On the 727 it’s the center, or number two. When we got to the departure end of 22 Right, the runway we were using for takeoff, there was difficulty with the number two engine generator. Its speed is constant and is governed by a constant speed drive or CSD, and it wouldn’t go on line…”

“Whoa. Slow down. I’m no pilot. To me the cockpit is just a bunch of dials and gauges.”

“Sorry. Each engine has its own generator providing electrical power to different items like air conditioning units, hydraulic pumps and the like. There’s a maximum allowable electrical load for the entire plane, so when one isn’t working, it puts added stress on the ones that are.”

“Okay. I think I understand better now.” Daly hesitated. “If one was broken, why didn’t you return to get it fixed?”

“We might have because I